


i’m a satellite (and i can’t get back without you)

by Paragraphss



Series: Stark and Lannister [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Explicit Sex, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 17:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19674739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paragraphss/pseuds/Paragraphss
Summary: You swallow him whole, and spit him out again before dawn. It feels like regret and love and fear.You’ve never tasted something so sweet before.(The night after, and the night after that.)





	i’m a satellite (and i can’t get back without you)

**Author's Note:**

> this will probably be a three part story tbh

You don’t remember much of the battle.

You remember being pinned against a wall, and you remember seeing Brienne slicing through a wight with a look of fury. You remember watching Arya Stark leaping across rooftop, and seeing the fires rise into the sky, and the beat of dragon wings above you.

You watched as the Night King walked into the Godswood. Your heart was in your mouth, on your sleeve, but the wights around you were relentless, and you couldn’t see Bran, or Theon, or the other men that had stood by his side.

You prepare yourself for grief, but then the army is falling around you, smashing like crystal wine glasses, and Bran is there, smiling with cold eyes.

The memories in between are lost to you. You find that it doesn’t bother you; you don’t collect them anymore, don’t keep them tucked underneath your breastbone. Most of the Northerners go straight to their beds, and you do the same, taking the handles of Bran’s wheelchair off of one of the guards. The man smiles at you in thanks- you wonder if he recognises you, in the dull moonlight.

Probably not.

You take him to his chambers, and as you lift him onto the bed, he presses a hand to your cheek.

“Are you sure?” He says, and you kiss him, with passion and urgency, and you don’t stop kissing him until you need to pull his shirt over his head. He watches you, with hooded eyes, so you lick a stripe up his neck as an excuse to break eye contact.

Your hand races over his body, dancing across the planes of pale skin. You drum your fingers on his ribs, tap tap tap. He wiggles beneath you as best he can, so you straddle him and kiss him again.

He tastes like smoke and honey. (Cersei never tasted like this- she was always acidic, like sour apples and bitter wine. Her taste was like ashes in your mouth but you kissed her anyway because you didn’t know what else to do).

Bran’s hands hook behind your knees, gripping the skin tightly. You groan against his lips, then lick into his mouth the way that Cersei liked, relish in the whimper that follows.

You kiss down his chest and leave a trail of red bites in your wake. His eyes never leave you, and as you untie his breeches, you see that they aren’t cold at all.

You swallow him whole, and spit him out again before dawn. It feels like regret and love and fear.

You’ve never tasted something so sweet before.

-

“I don’t love her,” You repeat. You say it like a mantra in your head, and Bran replies with the faintest of smiles, “I stopped loving her a while ago. I think. It’s all a big mess, really.”

“You pushed me out of a tower for love.” Bran says. You grimace, because it’s true, he has the scars to prove it.

“I also killed my cousin for love. I lied to a king for love,” You pause, and look at Bran, with his flushed face and red chest and messy hair, “ I fucked my sister for love.”

“And now you’re here.” Bran finishes wisely. All you can do is nod and kiss him again, and pull him close when you close your eyes.

-

You spend the next day in his chambers, curled up on his furs. You fuck him once, twice, and find comfort in the feeling of his skin against yours.

When night falls, you visit the funeral pyre. Jon is there, along with his Queen, and the other Stark children. They all share the same look of mourning; the same downcast eyes and pained smiles.

You recognise some of the bodies.

Theon Greyjoy lies still, and you remember Bran telling you about how the boy ran at the Night King to protect him. You look at the boy upon the pyre and whisper thank you, thank you for being brave.

The small act of kindness is foreign to you, but not unwelcome. You wonder if Bran would be proud of the man you are becoming.

Ser Jorah is on the Pyre too, and the Dragon Queen is crying, a hand pressed to his forehead. His cousin is next to him- you watched her with wide eyes as she ran towards a Giant. She was fighting a war so much bigger than herself and she fought with the strength of ten men, just like all those from Bear Island did. You only met Jeor Mormont once, but the man was honourable, and so were his kin, and you briefly wonder what will happen to Bear Island now.

You watch as Arya Stark presses her forehead to a man with an eyepatch. Sansa ghosts a kiss over Theon’s cheek. Jon Snow repeats an oath to a man in a black cloak. You see mourning in every person, and you can’t help but feel out of place.

The rows of the fallen stretch on, from pyre to pyre, and you thank the Gods silently that you aren’t among them. You are a selfish man. You don’t let yourself forget that.

Brienne and Podrick are stood together, so you gravitate towards them and stand silently.

You watch as smoke twists into the sky. The firelight bounces off of Bran’s face, dips into the hollows of his cheeks, and you wonder if Cersei was ever this beautiful.

(You know the answer- it rises up from your memories like the dead, murky and dazed. She was never beautiful, only poisonous, with her words and hair and eyes.

She was never beautiful, but she was addictive, and you think you’ve finally untangled yourself from her)

-

Sansa catches you as you’re walking to Bran’s chamber.

It was inevitable, really. You’re fucking her own brother, in her own castle, and there’s only a thin wall to separate you. The Northerners were celebrating their victory, but you only stayed long enough to hear a bastard boy become Lord of Storms End.

You had expected the halls to be quiet, but Sansa was stood outside her bedroom door, waiting, watching you with eyes that burned with vicious fire.

“Don’t break him, Jaime Lannister,” She told you, tone laced with ice, and you nod, because you don’t have the confidence to speak, because the words wouldn’t come. She shoves your shoulder as she walks past.

“I don’t love her,” You call after her weakly, and she turns her head slightly, and then she’s gone, and you’re alone again.

-

“Sansa knows,” You tell Bran, when you’re both naked and breathing heavily. He smiles, and tugs you on top of him again, so you slick yourself up and fuck him again, until your thrusts are choppy and the bed groans underneath you.

When you’re finished, minutes later, hours later, you roll onto your side and say, “You don’t care?”

Bran turns to look at you, and his eyes are wide, like the hooves of a horse foot, like the holes in your shirt, like the plates that you ate cake off of. You don’t understand, not really, but Bran’s slipping his hand under the furs again and your thoughts turn to mush.

-

You mount your horse two hours later.

The ride South is long, but you’ll make it before the Dragon Queen does. You pull your hood up and try not to think about what you’re leaving behind.

When you glance back, Bran is in the courtyard, and he watches you go. You can’t see the expression on his face. He will not be hurt- you have to count on it.

You don’t look back again.


End file.
